A Strange Ghost Indeed
by Fennelseed
Summary: (SLASH. Now finished.) Frodo buys a book of Elven artwork, only to find it comes with the ghost of a voyeuristic girl. How inconvenient.
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: I most certainly don't own these characters and haven't been paid for writing stuff like this.   
  
Author's Note: I don't speak any Elvish except "Havo dad, Legolas," so if "Caerolas" actually means "mother monkey butt" in Quenya or something, then I apologize. It wasn't intentional.  
  
* * *  
  
It was the most beautiful Elven artwork Frodo had ever seen. He turned the pages of the volume in the bookseller's stall, entranced by the skill in the pictures, the grace of the calligraphy. His heart beat quickly; he knew the large book must be incredibly rare and quite old, and was worth far more than the seller was asking. True, the fact that some previous owner long ago had glued pink satin ribbon and tea-colored lace to the edges of the front cover would diminish its value a little bit, as would the looping handwriting on the flyleaf, which seemed to consist mostly of the name "Mariella" joined with the names of legendary heroes inside flower-shaped bubbles. But it was still a treasure, the likes of which he never expected to see in the Hobbiton marketplace.  
  
Silently blessing the mysterious paths that had delivered this book into his unworthy hands, Frodo counted out the requested coins for the seller.   
  
The fellow was a middle-aged hobbit with a distracted look in his eyes. "Thank you, good sir," the seller gushed. "You're too kind, sir." He wrapped up the book in a length of snow-white cotton and offered it up to Frodo.  
  
"Not at all, friend. The pleasure is mine," Frodo responded, and bore away his new darling with a thrill of euphoria. He restrained himself from unwrapping it for most of the walk home, but as he strode up the path toward Bag End, he couldn't resist any longer. He pulled away a corner of the white cloth and touched the faded pink ribbon with one fingertip, reverentially. Then he lifted the book to his lips and kissed it. "We shall never part, my sweet," he promised, and grinned from ear to ear.   
  
* * *  
  
Things got even better when Frodo dug into his other Elvish books at home. It was as he suspected: the artist's name, stylized in a cryptic rune in the corner of each drawing, was the mark of the famed Caerolas. Frodo found some brief accounts, buried in the vast Elven histories, of that celebrated Mirkwood Elf, whose illustrations were the most desired among the scribes of seven centuries ago. Caerolas had been killed in battle at the young age of 189, so not only was it rare to find surviving instances of his artwork (apparently most of it was either in Rivendell or Valinor now), but he was considered something of a child genius among the Elf-kind. And Frodo had a huge, well-preserved book of legends right here, illustrated by Caerolas's very hand! He could have danced with joy. As it was, he leaped up from his desk and looked out his window to see if Sam was here yet. It was hard to find people who could appreciate this, since Bilbo was now gone and Gandalf hardly ever came to visit.  
  
There came Sam now, pushing a wheelbarrow full of grass clippings. "Sam!" Frodo hollered, startling Sam into dropping the shears. "Come in here! Come, come!"  
  
"Yes, sir; right away, sir." Wiping his hands on his green-smeared shirtfront, Sam came running, entering the smial through the kitchen and arriving out of breath in Frodo's study. "What's wrong, sir? Spider? Mouse?"  
  
"What? No, you silly ass. Look what I've just bought." Frodo darted across the room to pull on Sam's elbow, and promptly sneezed three times when he caught wind of Sam's clothes. "Goodness, Sam," he said, his nose stuffing up. "You positively reek of lawn."  
  
"Begging your pardon; I was just..."  
  
"No, it's all right. Look!" He led Sam to the desk where the book lay open, and took out a handkerchief to blow his nose as Sam bent to examine the drawings.  
  
"Ain't those something!" Sam murmured. "That may be the finest art I ever saw. Course, I daren't get too close. Grass stains on them would be a pity indeed."  
  
"No worse a pity than a girl's lovestruck doodlings," Frodo laughed, and laid a hand on Sam's back to show that he didn't mind touching the garden dirt himself, hay fever or not.   
  
"A girl's what?" Sam asked, puzzled.  
  
"Have a look. It's quite funny." Frodo flipped back to the flyleaf, where the clouds and flowers and name-pairings sprawled across the paper, in what appeared to be lavender-colored ink - or possibly black, faded with age. "My guess is that some girl named Mariella was in possession of this book, ages ago. Seems she took a fancy to several of the fellows in the legends."  
  
"Well, when they're drawn as nice as this, who could blame her?" Sam said, smiling.  
  
"That's the best of it." Frodo leaned on the desk, his head close to Sam's as he turned pages to show a fine full-color illustration of an Elven wedding. He pointed to the rune in the bottom corner. "The artist, who leaves this mark, is none other than Caerolas of Mirkwood. He's been dead for centuries, and his work is considered absolutely priceless. And I found it for a few silver pennies at Hobbiton!"  
  
Sam turned amazed, delighted hazel eyes to Frodo. "Did you! Ah, see, I knew you were part Elvish like they say. You must have a touch of real magic, to find such a thing."  
  
"Oh, just luck, I imagine. But it's all mine now." Frodo turned aside to push the handkerchief back into his pocket. He glanced at Sam, who was tilting his head in examination of the herbs and flowers in the drawing. "I hope you'll come up after supper, and look at it with me," Frodo added shyly. Sam's eyes, curious and surprised, lifted to him. "I mean," Frodo rushed on, "you're the only one around here who could really understand its value."  
  
Sam seemed to grow taller with the compliment, and looked down at the book again, obviously pleased. "I'm sure I don't know half as much about it as you. But I'd quite like to see more of it. When I'm cleaner, as it were."  
  
Sam therefore went home and changed into clean clothes for supper. Upon returning, he dined at Bag End with Frodo, and afterward pulled up an extra chair to Frodo's desk and sat beside him to look at the splendor of Caerolas's inks. In the light of the surrounding lamps and candles, Frodo read aloud some of the stories, and Sam read some aloud too, apologizing whenever he stumbled over the foreign Elvish sounds. Frodo was not bothered in the least. He was proud of his young friend for being able to read Elvish at all, and told him so, and thumped him happily on the back more than once. They were sipping wine, it was a fine autumn evening, and they had an original book of Caerolas artwork: how could life be better?  
  
Sam grew tired at about ten o'clock, and had to return home. He got up much earlier than Frodo, after all. Frodo assured him he understood, and invited him back for the next evening. Sam accepted. After seeing Sam off at the door, and taking a moment to look up at the stars in the crisp night sky, Frodo wheeled round and went back into his study to spend a little longer with the book. He sat down in his chair, and touched the open page gently.   
  
"My lovely treasure," he sighed.  
  
It came as a great shock when someone's icy-cold hand caressed his cheek.  
  
He yelled, scrambled out of his chair, fell to the floor, and sat there breathing in a panic, staring at the apparition that regarded him from beside the desk.   
  
She was transparent, seemingly. And glowed with a blue tint. She was very tall, too: her head touched the rafters of the room; or, rather, it merged with the rafters of the room. She looked like a Big Person, a young woman, but in terrible condition. Her waist-length hair was matted and tangled and appeared to be wet, her dress was crumpled and mud-streaked, and her face and arms were bruised and bloodstained.   
  
Frodo heard a wheezing sound like a puppy whimpering. He realized it was coming from his own throat.   
  
"Who are you?" he demanded, in a squeak.  
  
"Goodness," she said. "I seem to have startled you."  
  
"Are you a g...a gh..."  
  
"A ghost? Yes, alas." She turned aside, and reached toward the book. Somehow her finger made contact with the page, and she began leafing through it. "Ah, it feels good to be awake again! The last owner was all right while he was young, I suppose, but he became wholly uninteresting after that. I gave up and went back to sleep. I'm so glad *you* bought it." She sent him a hideous smile which, he supposed, was meant to be coquettish.  
  
"Bought...the book? You followed the book here?" he said.  
  
"Of course. I'm Mariella." She took hold of her tattered skirt and curtsied for him.  
  
Frodo decided it would be courteous to get up off the floor, even if his guest was dead. He got to his feet and bowed a little, still trembling. "Frodo Baggins. I...I beg your pardon, but I've never met a ghost before. I'm a little frightened, to be honest."  
  
"Well, you should be," she said. "I'm twice your size." Suddenly she rushed close to him, bending to look in his face, and pushing her clammy hand across his hair and down his neck.  
  
Frodo cried out in terror, stumbling backward and hitting the edge of the desk.   
  
"Oh, but you're such a pretty thing!" she said. "I could eat you up!"  
  
"No! No! Please stop!" He wriggled away, darting for the corridor, fending her off with one arm, but she moved with an eerie speed, and the next thing he knew, she had him trapped in the corner.   
  
With a quick reach she slammed the door shut, and loomed over him, still grinning with nightmarish delight. "Ooh, I don't think I've ever had an owner as lovely as you! And you love my book very much, don't you? I can tell. We're going to be together a long time."  
  
"Don't hurt me," gasped Frodo, on his knees. "I beg of you, don't hurt me. I mean you no harm. What is it you want, o terrible spirit?"  
  
She reared back and folded her arms, looking displeased. "Well, first of all, you simply must stop calling me things like 'o terrible spirit.' A girl does not find it the least bit flattering. Honestly, it's no wonder you're a bachelor."  
  
"I'm sorry. You're right. I'm sorry. Accept my apologies, my lady."  
  
"'Mariella' will do. Though 'my lady' is awfully adorable, I must say." She batted her pallid eyelashes, and twirled a lock of limp hair around her finger, as if she were a damsel at a dance.  
  
"Perhaps if you would tell me, Miss Mariella, who you are and how you came to be here, and how I can be of assistance to you?" Frodo attempted, hoping that this was more diplomatic and would not induce her to start chasing him around the room again.  
  
"Oh, my life is a sad story," she sighed, and paced to the window, trailing her weightless skirts behind her.  
  
Frodo slumped against the wall, and suppressed a groan. This sounded like it would take a while.  
  
"I was born some three hundred years ago, the daughter of a book-trader in Minas Tirith."  
  
"Minas Tirith?" Frodo said, interested in spite of himself. "Oh, how magnificent! I've never been so far away. Why, my uncle Bilbo hasn't even been there, and he's been just about everywhere."  
  
She shot him a glance, and he understood that he was not supposed to talk during this, except maybe to sympathize with her.  
  
"Sorry," he quickly said. "Do go on."  
  
She resumed her former mood with another melancholy sigh, and turned her face to the window. "My young, happy, romantic life was cut tragically short at age nineteen, on a starlit night rather like this one."  
  
Frodo bit his lip, to keep himself from asking if it was an attack by Orcs or what exactly. Surely she was about to tell him.  
  
"I heard that my cousin, a handsome lad of twenty-two, was going to be playing a game of dice with his friends in the Guard, a game which involved removing a piece of clothing for every losing roll. Naturally I had to see such a thing for myself, so I climbed up the latticework outside their tower, to peer in the window."  
  
Frodo tried to assume the proper countenance for this confession, but was unsure which one to settle on. Understanding? Amusement? Disapproval? Outright bewilderment? He also made a mental note to look through any accounts of Minas Tirith he might have lying around, for mention of this unusual and lascivious-sounding dice game. It sounded like it might be of scholarly significance.   
  
"Well," Mariella continued, combing her fingers through her bedraggled hair, "I saw only a small amount of fair man-flesh through the shutter slats, before disaster befell me. For, you see, their window was some hundred feet above the ground."  
  
"Oh, dear," Frodo said.  
  
"Yes. When I lost my footing and fell to the flagstones, I was sure it was the death of me."  
  
"What a very sad death," he said. "Your, er, family must have been very grieved indeed."  
  
"Oh, but I didn't die then," she said.  
  
"You didn't?"  
  
"No. Though I lay bruised and broken at the base of the tower, I still lived!"  
  
"How...um...remarkable..."  
  
"But alas," she mourned, "I had fallen directly into the path of a carriage, pulled by four horses."  
  
Frodo winced. "Oh...that is awful."  
  
"Yes. When they trampled me under their hooves, and I felt the carriage wheels roll over my body, then, indeed, I despaired of ever living to dream of man-flesh again."  
  
"It sounds very painful," he said, hoping he came across as compassionate, though mostly he was just revolted.  
  
"But I was not dead yet!" she exclaimed. "The driver of the carriage heard my cry, and stopped to gather me up beside him."  
  
"How gallant the Men of Gondor are," observed Frodo.  
  
"Yes. He immediately set out for the nearest healer's house, across the bridge. I often wonder if I would have survived," Mariella lamented, "if he had not hit that large stone in the road, which so jolted the carriage and threw me clear out into the river."  
  
"Oh..." Frodo made a serious effort not to laugh. "Yes, I suppose it would be impossible to swim, with such injuries..."  
  
"Oh, but I did swim! And perhaps would have made it, too, if not for the waterfall."  
  
Frodo's self-control collapsed, and he burst into nervous giggles. When Mariella turned a stern and wrathful look on him, he quelled them. "Sorry. Terribly sorry," he said. "I thought perhaps...nothing. Sorry. Er, I do hope your suffering ended shortly after that?"  
  
"Yes, the waterfall at last took my life. Rather, the rocks at the bottom did. With some help from the venomous water-snakes."  
  
"Ah. Indeed, yes. Terrible." Frodo had read, in many naturalists' notes, that one should not go swimming in the rivers of Gondor for precisely that reason. The snakes, that is; not the rocks and the waterfalls, though now that he thought about it, those were good reasons too.  
  
"And so my spirit took residence in this book, the one possession I loved most in all the world," Mariella concluded. "I have been passed from hand to hand, owner to owner, taking what pleasure I could."  
  
"What...pleasure?" Frodo asked, fearfully.  
  
"In any young men of the house, of course." She glided close to him again, and he shrank back till he was pressed to the wall. "They are always such fun to watch. And touch." She captured his face in both icy hands, and nuzzled his nose with her own. It felt like being caressed by a dead fish. He squeezed his eyes shut, and tried not to scream. Then she let him go and stood up straight. "However," she said, flatly, "I can't really feel much anymore, when I do touch them, and they tend to take it about as graciously as you are. So there's seldom any use."  
  
Frodo's whole body drooped with relief. "Oh, good. That is--I feel very sorry for you naturally, but I don't think I could give you what you want, being just an inexperienced bachelor, and merely a hobbit in any case, so really it's just as well--"  
  
"But I'm not done with you," she interrupted. Her voice had become wickedly lively again, and Frodo felt the dread return to his heart. "Why, I shan't waste an opportunity like this! A beautiful lad like you, innocent in the ways of the flesh, just languishing about and waiting for someone to indoctrinate him? Oh, I wouldn't miss this for the world!"  
  
"I can't," gasped Frodo. "Really. I'm sure you're a very nice girl and would make someone a--er--lovely teacher, but I couldn't possibly--"  
  
She grabbed an empty pewter mug from his desk and flung it at him. He cried out and covered his head. The mug bounced off the wall, an inch from his ear. "You shall do what I say!" she thundered. "Or every night in your house shall be spent like this, with you dodging your own possessions; do you hear me?" She seized a candlestick next, and flung that. Fortunately there was no candle in it; but the brass smacking against the wall, on the other side of Frodo's head, sounded quite solid and dangerous.  
  
"Please don't," he whimpered. "Please. Surely we can come to some sort of peace...perhaps you'd prefer just to go back to sleep..."  
  
"I am awake and I will have you do my bidding!" she boomed. A handful of sealing-wax stubs fell upon Frodo like hail.  
  
"What do you wish?" he cried. "Please stop! Tell me what you want!"  
  
She smiled, and put down the inkwell she had just taken up. "How kind of you to ask. Well, Frodo--may I call you Frodo?--I wish to get you into the position found on page 36. To start with."  
  
Disturbed, Frodo edged forward until he could reach the book, and leafed back to page 36. Two Elves with long rippling hair were wrapped in a kiss. "You wish me to...kiss someone?" He looked up at Mariella, who hovered beside him.  
  
She looked smug. "Not only that, but I've picked just the person. That sweet little gardener of yours: 'Sam', you called him?"  
  
"Me kiss Sam!" laughed the shocked Frodo. "A lad kissing a lad? But that's not what this picture--oh." He had given it another look, and realized that, actually, it was two male Elves he was looking at. "With the long hair, I didn't see at first..."  
  
"They're so beautiful, they're really almost girls," she sighed. "You have some of that quality yourself. It's perfectly divine...those eyes, those lips...oh, it's a waste not to use them for passion!"  
  
"But why Sam?" moaned Frodo. "You mustn't make him do this. He's too innocent. He would never understand."  
  
"What, don't you fancy him?"  
  
"I do--I mean I don't--that is--no, you're missing the point..."  
  
"The warmth between you tonight while you were looking at my book was darling," she cooed. "I nearly squealed aloud."  
  
"You were here?"  
  
"I was hiding, staying quiet. I didn't dare disturb you. The way you were cuddled together at this desk, it looked like it might turn into a love scene." While Frodo spluttered indignantly, Mariella's face turned severe. "But it didn't, did it? You failed me. I want to see this--" She stabbed a finger at the drawing. "--and I want to see it tomorrow! Do you hear?"  
  
Frodo slid down until he huddled with his nose at desk level. "Why must it be me?" he asked.  
  
"Because you are my owner, and I've become quite smitten with you. Looking upon beautiful males--especially with each other--was always the thing I loved best in life. Some could even say it was my downfall." Her regretful tone became sharp again. "But I shall not have died in vain! I will have my wish, do you understand?"  
  
Frodo groaned, and hid his face in his arms. "I won't ask Sam. I won't," he said, but he sounded vanquished.  
  
"Oh, yes you will. Or I'll insist that you start with the scene on page 87, instead."  
  
"What's on page--never mind. I don't want to know."  
  
"Anyway," she yawned, "if you don't ask him, I will."  
  
Frodo looked up at her in horror. "No!"  
  
"Goodnight, little Frodo. Be ready for me tomorrow, with your sweet young friend." And Mariella evaporated out of sight.  
  
Frodo, quivering, stayed on the floor.   
  
Well, at least now he knew why that book had been so inexpensive. He tried to laugh, but it came out a terrified squeak.   
  
* * * 


	2. 2

Frodo awoke at first light to find himself on the floor of his study, curled up on the rug. He felt a flood of hope, thinking that the ghost of Mariella had only been a nightmare begotten of falling asleep over his new book with that name written in it. But then he noticed that he was surrounded by scattered stubs of sealing wax, a dented mug, and a candlestick. Furthermore, when he climbed blearily to his feet and looked at the book on the desk, he saw it was still open to page 36, where the two male Elves in their gauzy windblown robes were locked in an eternal kiss.  
  
Frodo closed the book, embarrassed beyond endurance at the thought of having to show that picture to Sam and ask him whether he'd like to give it a go. Well, he hadn't actually promised Mariella he would. Maybe there was still some way to get out of it.  
  
He carried the book to the trunk room at the back of the smial, went to a trunk in the farthest corner, and put the book into it under a heavy pile of folded-up blankets. Perhaps, like some magic objects, if it wasn't touched or opened, it wouldn't yield up its dreadful enchantments.  
  
"Frodo," said a calm, female voice with a Gondorian accent, as he closed the trunk. Frodo yelped and spun around. There floated Mariella, arms folded, watching him. "You can't escape me that simply, you know."  
  
"E-escape you? No, no, of course not. I wasn't trying to. I just was, er, tidying up, and..."  
  
"Because you see," Mariella interrupted, examining her transparent fingernails, "you're my owner. It doesn't matter where you put the book. I'd still find you. Why, you could send it out into the sea on a raft, and it wouldn't rid you of me. Not that you'd do that to an original Caerolas, of course."  
  
"No--I wouldn't," Frodo said, which was true, but he was quite dismayed at this news all the same. "Then whoever buys the book, they inherit you, so to speak?"  
  
"Quite. You'd have to sell that volume to get rid of me." She looked at him with a flirtatious smile. "But you don't want to do that either, do you?"  
  
Frodo took the book out of the trunk, and stood holding it, caressing its faded ribbons with his thumbs, trying to get up the courage to say "Yes" and march past her. But in the end he only hung his head. If he could just endure this until Gandalf showed up, everything would be all right. Gandalf would be able to do something to clear this girl out of his hair. Surely he would. Until then, Frodo's scholarly pride would not allow him to let such a treasure go.  
  
"That's what I thought," Mariella said, smirking at his silence. "So, I hope you're ready for tonight."  
  
"Tonight? Oh--no, no, you must give me more time. Sam is shy, as I told you, and I will need to, er, work on him..."  
  
"To-night," she sang, and vanished.  
  
Frodo kicked the trunk in frustration. Then he put down the book and tromped off to have breakfast, for, really, there was no use facing certain social disaster on an empty stomach.  
  
* * *  
  
Frodo was clearing some dishes in the kitchen just before lunchtime when a knocking at the door startled him into dropping the spoon in the sugar-bowl with a clatter. He realized a moment later that ghosts were unlikely to knock at the door--to judge from Mariella they just appeared wherever they wanted to, in fact--so he went to open it. It turned out to be none other than Sam, dusted with a light coating of pollen, beaming and holding out a handful of wildflowers for Frodo to take.   
  
"Afternoon, sir! For the table, I thought, like."  
  
"Oh. Thank you, Sam." Frodo took them, and sneezed. "They smell lovely," he said. "Do come in."  
  
"You seem a bit down today, Mr. Frodo. Do you feel all right?"  
  
Frodo took a vase from a cupboard, and filled it with water for the flowers. "I...I stayed up rather too late last night, because of the book. That's all."  
  
"Ah, then some tea'll be just the thing. Shall I make it?"  
  
Frodo was tempted to cry out, "No! Run, Sam! Run as far away from here as you can!", but of course that would sound insane, and Sam wouldn't go; he would stay and demand to know what was happening. Anyway, if Frodo tried something like that, Mariella would probably start flinging everything in the kitchen at him. Frodo sighed and answered, "Yes. Tea sounds good. Stay for lunch, in fact, won't you?"  
  
Over lunch Frodo couldn't get up the nerve to tell Sam about Mariella, or her strange request. Really, how did one broach a subject like that? Instead, he let Sam chatter on about the hound pups and the fox-kits and the other small creatures being born this season. Frodo didn't say much in answer, but encouraged him with hums and nods, still trying to work out a way to explain his new predicament.  
  
Then Sam stopped talking, and whispered, "Lor bless me!" Frodo looked at him and found he had gone pale and was staring at something behind and above Frodo's shoulder. Frodo looked too, though he had a good suspicion of what he would find.  
  
Indeed, there hovered Mariella, hand on her hip, swinging a teapot in her other hand. "My dear hobbits," she said. "You are taking rather too long to get to the point. Frodo, don't you have something to ask Sam here?"  
  
"Um...yes, well..."  
  
"Who is that?" asked Sam, round-eyed. "Gracious, sir, is that a ghost?"  
  
Mariella looked at the ceiling in disgust. "Have you told him *nothing*? My, but you're hopeless. Well, if you aren't going to tell him--"  
  
"No! I will!" Frodo jumped up. "Er, Sam, this is Mariella. She...she's the former owner of the book. She's...yes, well, she's a ghost, as you surmise..."  
  
Sam had gotten to his feet too, and hadn't taken his eyes off the young woman. "Bless me," he whispered again.  
  
"I'm a ghost, *and*..." Mariella prompted.  
  
"And," Frodo stammered, "and--she has always had a fondness for looking at...at..."  
  
"Man-flesh," Mariella filled in, with a sweet smile at Sam, whose pale-faced astonishment shifted in the direction of blushing perplexity.  
  
"Yes," Frodo went on, "and she approached me last night, and it seems she...she threatens to...well..."  
  
"Throw things at you for the rest of your life," Mariella said helpfully, holding up the silver teapot.  
  
"Quite. Throw things--if I don't, er, do as she wishes."  
  
Sam stepped forward, fists clenched at his sides. "Now, see here, miss!" he said. "All due respect, and that, but what's Mr. Frodo ever done to you, that you think you can get away with treating him in such a manner?"  
  
Frodo cringed. "Sam--"  
  
The teapot went flying, and only Sam's quick dodge saved him from getting knocked in the head. It sailed over his shoulder, and Mariella smiled. "I *think* I can get away with it because I *can* get away with it. He's stuck with me until someone else buys that book from him. That's all there is to it. Tell him what I want, Frodo."  
  
Sam turned angrily to Frodo. "You sell that book right away, Mr. Frodo! There ain't nothing worth this, no matter how nice those pictures are."  
  
Frodo seized Sam's shirt with both hands and cried, "It's a Caerolas, lad! Don't you understand? A Caerolas!"  
  
"But, sir--"  
  
"Tell him what I want," interrupted Mariella. "I've got all kinds of plates over here to throw, and oh my, they do look fragile!"  
  
"You get that book and we'll go out right now and sell it," Sam insisted. "You can't live like this."  
  
"Please," Frodo whined. "If we just do what she wants, she'll settle down, and I can keep the book..."  
  
"And what I want is--?" she prodded.  
  
Frodo looked at her, then at Sam, and smoothed Sam's shirt under his hands. "Yes. Er, what she wants, Sam, is...er...close your eyes, would you?"  
  
"What for?"  
  
"Please, do it. Oh, dear, she's got the saucers! Close your eyes, quick!"  
  
"All right." Sam closed his eyes. "But--"  
  
Frodo pecked him quickly on the lips. Sam made a slight choking sound in surprise. "There," said Frodo to Mariella, letting go of Sam's shirt. "I've kissed him. Are you satisfied?"  
  
Sam had opened his eyes, and was staring at his master, and the ghost, in bewilderment. Mariella, meanwhile, only yawned, tossing a saucer up and down, catching it one-handed. "Hardly," she drawled. "That looked nothing like the picture in the book."  
  
"What picture?" demanded Sam. "You tell me what's going on here, sir."  
  
Frodo sighed wretchedly. "Well, you know when I said she liked to admire young fellows...well...she wants to see me do things with *you*. A...a kiss, she said. There's a picture of two Elves, and..."  
  
Sam lifted his chin. He wore a brave, determined look that Frodo had seen him employ when there were snakes to be chased out of the tool shed. "Let's see it, then."  
  
Frodo led the way to the trunk room, followed by Sam, and Mariella, who still swung the saucer in her hand. ("Just in case," she said daintily.) The book was still in the trunk where Frodo had attempted to hide it. He dug it out and ruffled through it to page 36. Unable to look Sam in the eye, he handed him the book and said, "There."  
  
Sam studied the picture quietly for a moment, then set the book down on the trunk. He took Frodo by the waist, pulled him close, glanced down at the picture one more time as if for reference, and swept Frodo into a tight, solid, warm kiss. Through the rushing of his surprised pulse in his ears, Frodo heard Mariella's gasp of delight. He was just getting used to the feel of Sam's mouth against his when Sam let him go, tugged his own shirt straight, and huffed, "There. That do for you, miss?"  
  
"Sam," said Frodo faintly, in impressed amazement.  
  
"Beg your pardon, sir," Sam added. "Had to be done, seemingly."  
  
"That was marvelous!" squealed Mariella, clapping her hands together. The saucer flew up in the air. Frodo and Sam both dove for it, tripped over each other, and landed in a heap on the floor. Sam did, however, catch the saucer an inch from the floorboards.  
  
"Thank you, Sam," Frodo said, grunting for breath under the weight of Sam's torso.   
  
"I don't suppose you could turn round and do it again?" Mariella suggested. "While you're lying there, I mean."  
  
Frodo glared. "You only said we had to imitate that picture! Well, we've done it. Now kindly leave me in peace."  
  
"I said *for starters* you had to imitate the picture. I now expect you both to be consumed with mutual passion, and to sit about pining and dreaming when you aren't together, and to be very sweet and physically affectionate with one another when you *are* together."  
  
"You can't demand that!" sputtered Frodo, struggling to his feet, with Sam's help.  
  
"You're holding hands already," Mariella pointed out. "I think it shall come quite naturally."  
  
Frodo snatched his hand away from Sam's. "He was helping me up! Now, really, Miss Mariella..."  
  
Mariella flung four dusty cushions, one after the other, straight at Frodo and Sam's faces and chests. The ensuing cloud of dust sent Frodo into a fit of sneezing.   
  
Sam pushed a handkerchief into Frodo's hand, and waved the dust away, stepping forward to stare down the ghost. "Look here, you! Mr. Frodo bought that book fair and square. You've had your turn with it, and it's his now. We did what you like, so you just let it go, and don't bother us no more! We can't go changing our lives around for you."  
  
Mariella knocked him over with a rolled-up rug. "Your appeal is very charming, especially in your dear Mr. Frodo's defense. But, you silly thing, I'm not asking for your entire lives. I'll get bored of the pair of you eventually--I always do--but until then, I want to see some *affection*."  
  
"Sam, you don't have to," Frodo said, kneeling to help Sam to his feet. "I'll--I'll find a way to deal with this."  
  
"You won't win," Mariella sang.  
  
"It's all right, Mr. Frodo," grumbled Sam, glaring at Mariella. "I won't leave you to face this by yourself. If you really want to keep that book--"  
  
"I do," Frodo apologized. "So help me, I really, really do."  
  
"Then I'll do what needs to be done," Sam said grimly. "Provided it ain't too improper, mind."  
  
"Oh, I'd never make you do anything you wouldn't enjoy," Mariella simpered--which, Frodo noticed, did not exactly address the concern. "Now, I think I shall go have a nap. Sam *will* come back after dinner." She winked her dark, gleaming eye at the two hobbits, and faded into nothing.  
  
Sam drew a breath. "My, but that's unnerving."  
  
"Isn't it, though," said Frodo.  
  
"Where does she go when she disappears like that?"  
  
"I can't possibly know. To 'sleep,' she says."  
  
"And can she hear us when she's there?"  
  
"It seems not. She wasn't aware that I hadn't told you about her yet, when she arrived at lunch."  
  
"In that case..." Sam turned to him. "Listen, sir, if you won't sell that book, I'll go along with your plan, really I will--"  
  
"You don't have to. You know that, Sam."  
  
"But I will, if that's what she wants. Better me than anyone else, who might go telling tales about it around town, if you see what I mean."  
  
"Oh yes, I do indeed. I was going to ask you, in fact, not to tell anyone. None of this would help the things they're already saying about me."  
  
"I shan't," Sam vowed. "But, sir, this can't go on forever, and to be honest, though I don't mind kissing you and such--"  
  
"You don't? Really?" Frodo was pleased, though he knew it was a silly time to feel that way.  
  
"I don't, sir, but--"  
  
"I don't mind either," Frodo interjected. "Which is to say, you don't disgust me or anything, and I'm comfortable with you, and I wanted to assure you of that--but never mind. Do go on."  
  
"Yes, sir. Thank you. Thing is, though I don't mind it, it's awful odd doing it with someone watching, especially a ghost of a Big Person. Downright eerie, it is. I can manage it, but I'm not sure how much I could do, with an audience, as it were."  
  
"That's a perfectly natural reaction. Healthy, even."  
  
"Good." Sam sounded relieved. "So you'll understand, if I put my foot down if she ever asks anything too indecent, it ain't about you, mind. It ain't a question of disgust or anything, like you said..."  
  
"Absolutely. Which reminds me, I meant to have a look at page 87...but not right now. Listen, Sam, this is my hope: sooner or later Gandalf will come visit, and we'll tell him what's going on. He'll be able to do something. I know he will."  
  
"Aye, but when's the next time he'll be coming round?"  
  
"Well, that I don't know," Frodo admitted. "Let's hope it's sooner than the date at which her interest runs out, though, or we shall be in this awkward situation for much longer than we might like."  
  
"I'll bear it if you can," said the stout Sam.  
  
"You are too kind, Sam." Frodo laid a hand on Sam's shoulder, then withdrew it quickly, thinking of how much Mariella would like to see them touch. Curse that girl, turning every innocent gesture into something salacious!  
  
"Reckon I ought to come back after dinner, then."  
  
"Sounds like you must. There are far too many knick-knacks around here she hasn't thrown yet."  
  
Frodo saw Sam out, and, naturally, did not kiss him farewell. That had never been a habit of theirs. However, as he closed the door, Frodo found himself thinking of that kiss again. Goodness! It did make sense that someone who did as much physical labor as Sam should have such strong, sure arms; but who could have predicted his lips would be so silky-soft? Undoubtedly there was a practical reason involving a beeswax ointment or something. Yes, come to think of it, there had been a slight honey-like taste...  
  
"Ugh!" Frodo gave his head a brisk shake, and stalked away to clear up the kitchen dishes. The silly things that ghost was making him think of! Honestly!  
  
* * * 


	3. 3

Frodo took a bath in preparation for the evening, then got dressed in fresh clothing, and sat outside on the front porch, enduring sneezing fits, to let his hair dry in the late sunshine. He had washed it with a lemongrass-scented rinse, which ordinarily he saved for special occasions. To help pass the time while sitting there, he got out a small pair of shears, and trimmed his toenails and fingernails, then leaned down to cut a sprig of spearmint to chew on. While he had the fragrant leaves in his hands, he decided it wouldn't go amiss to crush them between his fingers and rub the scent onto his wrists and into the damp hair at the nape of his neck. He thought it only courteous to Sam to be as clean and well-groomed as possible; and he didn't like to imagine what Mariella would do if she thought he hadn't gone to sufficient effort.  
  
When Sam trudged up the path, Frodo noticed he had apparently gone to some effort too. He had evidently bathed, as his hair was still wet enough that it formed tight dark curls just above his collar. His skin glowed a clean tan-peach, and his clothes looked to be entirely free of pollen and grass. "Me Gaffer gave me a hard time," Sam said as he reached the porch. " 'Getting all gussied up just to come here and look at a book,' as he called it."  
  
"Little does he know," Frodo said dourly. "Well, do come in. I haven't seen Miss Mariella yet, but I fear to think how she would react if we weren't ready when she appeared."  
  
They went inside, though Sam sighed that it seemed a shame to be in on such a fine evening. Frodo offered him an armchair, and agreed, but pointed out that they couldn't exactly practice kissing, with a ghost for an audience, out on the front porch in full view of the road. Sam acknowledged the truth in that.  
  
Frodo lit a few candles to stave off the deepening twilight, and then took a seat in a chair opposite Sam, and folded his hands. "I suppose there's nothing to do but wait," he said.  
  
"Suppose not."  
  
Frodo turned a hand over to examine his trimmed nails. Sam fussed with the edge of his waistcoat. Then he piped up, "Mr. Frodo--pardon my asking, but, shouldn't we be sitting over there, like?" He nodded to the couch, with its back to the far wall.   
  
"Over there? Why?"  
  
"Well, she'll be putting us over there anyway, I imagine. It's not like we'll be kissing each other from these two chairs, when I can't even reach you if I stretch my foot all the way out." Sam demonstrated.  
  
"Oh. That's true. I suppose I just thought she'd tell us what she wanted when she arrived...but now that I think on it, she might in fact be very angry if we haven't taken the initiative ourselves. She seemed quite intent on that sort of thing."  
  
Sam nodded. "And I figure if it ain't the couch she wants us on, it's--well, don't mean to shock you, sir, but she might get notions of a *bed*..."  
  
Frodo blushed, and got up immediately, nodding. "Indeed. Indeed. Very wise, Sam. Then let's move, shall we?"  
  
They removed themselves to the couch, and carefully sat down. A foot of space still separated them, but at least they were on the same piece of furniture now.   
  
"That's better, I reckon," said Sam.  
  
"Yes," Frodo agreed.  
  
They resumed their patient waiting. After another minute or two, Sam cleared his throat.  
  
"Maybe, um...well, I don't know, but..."  
  
"What?" Frodo asked.  
  
"Just, I think she'd be irked a bit, if she showed up and we was sitting here doing nothing, not even talking or anything."  
  
"Oh. All right." Frodo brightened, and turned more to face Sam. "We can talk."  
  
"And probably," Sam went on, "we should look a bit more comfortable. I bet she'd be pleased if we were sitting closer, see." Sam moved over, to within half a foot of Frodo.  
  
"Ah! Good thinking again, Sam. Then here--" Frodo closed the space, settling down right beside Sam, their sleeves in contact. "That does look more affectionate, doesn't it?"  
  
"Aye, I think so."  
  
"Perhaps even--is this too much?" Frodo put an arm on the back of the sofa cushions, behind Sam's head.  
  
"Not too much at all. That's what the courting couples do. Try like this, even." Sam took Frodo's hand and pulled his arm down around his shoulders. "My sisters and their sweethearts, they're always sitting that way. It's worth a try, anyhow."  
  
"All right. Should you put yours around me, too?"  
  
"Why not?" Sam maneuvered his arm up and around Frodo's shoulders.   
  
"There," said Frodo, feeling satisfied with himself for getting this far without making any serious mistakes.  
  
"Right," Sam agreed.  
  
"Yes."   
  
Sam coughed gently.  
  
They lapsed into silence again.  
  
"She's taking an awfully long time to get here," Frodo eventually mentioned.  
  
"Oh, all *right*," Mariella groaned, startling Sam and Frodo into nearly tumbling off the couch. "I see you're going to take all week without my guidance." She had apparently been standing up against the wall, behind a bookcase, where they couldn't see her without turning around.   
  
"Gracious," Frodo gasped. "How long have you--"  
  
"Five minutes or so. But I'm getting bored now." She picked a book from the shelves and glided over to them. "This one looks nice and heavy. So. Get back in that comfortable position you were in, won't you?"  
  
Sam and Frodo quickly, if grudgingly, complied.   
  
"Sam," Mariella addressed, "tell me what Frodo's neck smells like."  
  
"What his *neck* smells like? What a daft thing to say! What ought it to smell like?"  
  
Mariella raised the book, ready to pitch. "Tell me!"  
  
"Fine," grumbled Sam. Frodo gave him a small, encouraging smile. Sam ducked his head and hovered his nose around Frodo's earlobe. "Oh," he said, sounding surprised. "Actually I reckon that's...spearmint, ain't it, sir?"  
  
"Yes!" Frodo said, pleased. "I found a sprig of it outside by the porch, and thought I'd dab some on."  
  
"By the porch?" Sam frowned. "Oh, dear, I'll have to take care of that. It may smell nice, but the stuff's as invasive as any old weed. Sends runners right under the earth and they pop up everywhere, till next thing you know your garden's full of nothing but beds of spearmint--"  
  
"Ahem," thundered Mariella.  
  
"Sorry," said Sam.  
  
"If you were as smart as you're supposed to be," Mariella went on, turning to Frodo, "you would have chewed on the mint, not just put it behind your ears like a girl playing at perfumes."  
  
"But I did chew on it," said the smug Frodo. "I can still taste it as we speak!"  
  
Mariella's smile was awfully complacent, and Frodo realized, a moment too late, that he had walked right into a trap. "Good," she purred. "Then let Sam have a taste of your mouth."  
  
Frodo turned to Sam with a small wince. "Sorry."  
  
"Bound to be given that order sooner or later," Sam shrugged. And, as before, he took the lead, and captured Frodo's mouth. Frodo remembered, after a few seconds, that he was supposed to be letting Sam taste the mint, ridiculous though the idea sounded, so he opened his mouth a little. Sam did the same. Both of them respectfully kept their tongues behind their teeth.  
  
"Good," said Mariella when they stopped. "Could you taste spearmint, Sam?"  
  
"Yes indeed, miss."  
  
"And Frodo," she said, "what did Sam taste like?"  
  
"I--I'm not sure. Tea, perhaps?" Frodo guessed.  
  
"Could be that," Sam agreed. "Ended the meal with a cup of it."  
  
"And," Mariella went on, sliding toward them in a manner that reminded Frodo of a serpent, "how does each of you feel? Be honest."  
  
Frodo wasn't sure being honest was in fact what she wanted. At least, he knew he should leave out the part where he found it freakishly unsettling to have her staring at them. "I feel..." he began.  
  
"Warm," contributed Sam.  
  
"I like the sound of that!" she said, colorless lips pulling back in a grin.  
  
"Yes," said Frodo, suppressing a shudder at the sight. "It's quite, um, cozy." There was truth in that. With a ghost standing in his parlor, Frodo did in fact want to seize Sam closer. Preferably to hide behind him.  
  
"Do you find yourself...wanting more?" she probed.  
  
"Er," Frodo began. "I would--it's just--I'm awfully tired, you see. After the shock of meeting you last night, the *pleasant* shock naturally I mean, I didn't sleep well at all, so..."  
  
"If you kiss for one minute more," she said, "by which I mean a complete 60 seconds without stopping, then I will let you alone for the rest of the evening."  
  
Frodo's heart lightened, and Sam said in a cheerful tone, "Reckon we can do that; don't you think, sir?"  
  
"Until tomorrow, of course I mean," Mariella added.  
  
Sam sighed, and Frodo grumbled, "Of course."  
  
"Well, then, get started!"  
  
Frodo turned to Sam, still nestled under his arm, and gave him an apologetic smile. "Nothing for it, sir," Sam remarked, then clasped his other arm around Frodo's waist and got down to the business of kissing him.  
  
Frodo obliged, not daring to break contact even for a second. The rules, after all, had been very strict. He soon remembered he would have to breathe through his nose, and did so; though after getting the hang of things, he realized that with the way they were opening and closing their mouths, it was possible to catch breaths that way too. Felt almost natural after a bit, in fact. And if he kept his eyes closed, he could nearly forget the ghost was there at all, and pretend he was just enjoying a pleasant evening alone with Sam...  
  
Alone with Sam? What a funny thing to think! They had spent evenings together sometimes, true, but this had never been their activity of choice before. Frodo laughed suddenly, at the peculiarity of the whole thing, and the kiss was broken.  
  
"Oh--sorry!" he gasped. He looked guiltily at Mariella, and started to add, "I didn't intend to laugh; please don't count it against us..."  
  
But she was watching with her head tilted to the side, a dreamy smile on her face. She was hugging herself, and the heavy book swung gently from her relaxed hand. "Why, no need to apologize, master hobbit," she said. "You've already crossed the one-minute mark. Indeed, by my count from your clock over there, you've been at it for three minutes, going on four."  
  
Frodo shot a startled look at Sam, who seemed equally speechless.  
  
"Ah. Good, good," Frodo said at last, pulling his arms away from Sam. (How that other arm got around Sam's neck, he couldn't be sure.) "We hobbits set out to do things well, when we are requested to do them." He cleared his throat, and discreetly ran his thumb along his lower lip, which had become noticeably damp in the last four minutes.  
  
"I think you enjoyed it," Mariella teased, then added, "Goodnight, lads," and disappeared before they could do more than squawk in protest.  
  
Sam and Frodo edged apart on the couch.   
  
"Well," said Frodo. "Since you're here, would you like some apple tart?"  
  
"Sounds nice. Thank you, sir."  
  
"Then perhaps we could look at the pictures some more. If you can stand it, that is."  
  
"Seems we ought to, if we're going to be punished for it anyhow." Sam offered him a wry grin.  
  
"As always, you have an excellent point."  
  
After their dessert, they fetched the book to the couch, and opened it across their laps--it was quite large enough to cover both of them. For an hour or two they slowly turned pages and marveled over the details, and read more stories. One particularly impressive picture spread across both facing pages: it depicted a festival of some sort, with dozens of Elves and animals and beautiful things in it, filling every corner. You could look at it for a quarter of an hour and not see everything there was to see, it seemed.   
  
"Hoy!" said Sam, after a few minutes of gazing at it. He stabbed his finger at the bottom left corner. "What are them two doing?"  
  
In a space barely an inch square on the page, two Elves could be glimpsed under a table set up on the grass. They were half-undressed and in a...contorted...position, which Frodo could only conclude was meant to be erotic. "Something that I daresay's none of our business," he murmured. He and Sam exchanged glances, then giggled a bit. Frodo, getting a sudden horrible suspicion, had a look at the page number.  
  
87.  
  
"Let's turn the page," he said quickly.  
  
They moved on without incident.  
  
"Silly what she said, about enjoying it," Sam scoffed a while later, as they stood so he could take his leave for the night.  
  
"Oh--ridiculous," Frodo agreed.   
  
"Mind, it ain't ridiculous that someone would enjoy kissing *you*. Especially when you go tasting like mint, and all."  
  
Frodo, resting his arm on the door, bowed his head and chuckled. "I'm glad you appreciated that."  
  
"I just meant one can't be expected to enjoy it with her watching. Don't know what she's thinking, that one."  
  
"It does feel quite wrong. But thank you for going along with it, Sam. It means so much to me."  
  
"You're welcome, sir." Sam sighed, and nodded in the direction of the couch, where they'd left the book. "After seeing more of that book, I reckon you're right. It's probably worth it."  
  
Frodo beamed. "I knew you'd understand."  
  
"Aye. Well, see you tomorrow, then." Sam put on his cap, touched it in salute, and walked out.  
  
Frodo waved to him, and shut the door. He sauntered to his room to prepare for bed, yawning. Indeed, he had some sleep to catch up on.   
  
As he blew out the candles and nestled under the blankets, he thought about the subject of "enjoying it." A laugh from his own throat surprised him, much as it had while he was kissing Sam. The whole thing was just so funny, really. He turned over, already pleasantly drowsy, and burrowed his cheek into the pillow. So she wanted to see enjoyment, eh? He could make a show of that. Yes, he imagined he could indeed. Maybe then she would go away faster, and leave him to enjoy Sam in privacy. Er, to enjoy the book, rather. That tired mind of his did insist on inserting the wrong words! Smiling at the madness of it all, he fell asleep.  
  
* * * (To be continued...) 


	4. 4

In the middle of reorganizing one of his bookshelves the next day, to make room for his newer purchases that had been piling up around the room, Frodo was startled by a familiar womanly voice.  
  
"I do hope you're daydreaming about Sam while doing that."  
  
He twisted around to look at her, almost falling off the chair he was standing on. "Oh, good day, Miss Mariella. Pardon me for asking, but do you ever consider knocking on doors first, to avoid giving people a fright?"  
  
"I do like to knock on doors--walls and ceilings too--but mostly in the middle of the night. I'll start doing that, if you insist."  
  
"No," Frodo sighed, getting down from the chair. "Never mind. How can I help you?"  
  
"You can get Sam in here at once. He's out in the garden, doing something or other with twine and chrysanthemums. I was watching him from the bedroom window. He's glowing with perspiration, and has just opened up his shirt and poured water down his neck to cool off; and, my word, I can't take it another minute. You simply must touch him, or *I* shall."  
  
Much as Frodo didn't like to impose on Sam, he was quite alarmed at the idea of Mariella molesting the lad. "All right," he said, and moved toward the door. "All right--don't do anything. I'll call him in."  
  
A minute later, the two hobbits were standing side by side in the front parlor. Sam did indeed look warm and rumpled from working in the sun, and his faded white shirt stuck to him, soaked in patches on the front and back. Scents of green leaves and wet cotton and earth drifted from him. Frodo breathed it in, appreciating the freshness, then sneezed once.  
  
"Sorry for looking like this, sir," Sam said. "Didn't know I'd be called in at this hour."  
  
"You look fine," Frodo said. "And I'm sorry for summoning you. It was Mariella's wish. But, Miss," he said, turning a stern look on Mariella, "as Sam's employer, I must insist that he not be interrupted in his work for long. He's a busy fellow, and it isn't fair to him."  
  
"All I ask is five minutes. You needn't even sit down," she said.  
  
"Very well," Frodo said, glancing at Sam, who answered with a nod. "What must we do, then?"  
  
"Same as you did yesterday. However..." She strolled around them, looking them up and down. "With your shirts off."  
  
"What?" laughed the surprised Frodo.  
  
"Sam's shirt is wet. Be a good boy and help him take it off."  
  
"Yes, but *my* shirt isn't wet."  
  
"It will be when you embrace him, with his bare, damp skin."  
  
Frodo glanced at Sam, expecting the lad would "put his foot down" at such suggestions. But Sam only answered by lifting an eyebrow at him in a skeptical, possibly amused, fashion. "Willing if you are, sir," he said.  
  
Frodo nodded. "Think I can manage."  
  
"You wouldn't want to get this grime on your fine shirt anyway." Sam opened the remaining buttons down his front, and peeled one arm out.  
  
"Help him with it!" snapped Mariella.  
  
Frodo, who had started undoing his own buttons, jumped and turned to Sam. "Oh--right, right." He was in time to take the damp shirt and pull it from Sam's other arm, leaving his gardener bare to the waist.  
  
Sam seemed nonchalant about it. "Can I help you out as well?" he asked politely.  
  
"That's the idea," Mariella commended.  
  
"Certainly; thank you," Frodo answered to Sam, ignoring Mariella. He draped Sam's shirt over a chair, then stood with his arms slack and chin lifted, letting Sam unbutton and remove his shirt, as if he were being helped by his valet to dress for dinner. (This had never been among Sam's job duties, but Frodo noticed he seemed quite able to do it, if ever the need should arise.)  
  
"And now," Mariella said, when Frodo's shirt had been folded and placed on the chair by Sam, "up against the wall with *you*." She gave Frodo a push with her hand. It felt quite cold on his bare shoulder, and he shivered.  
  
"Against the wall? All right." He assumed an innocent expression as he put his back to the wall, though he had a secure guess that this pose was not going to be what anyone would call "innocent".   
  
"And you," Mariella looked to Sam, "--hold him there. With your thighs as well as your arms if need be. And of course kiss him all the while," she added, as if this should be obvious.  
  
Sam looked a bit dubious about this plan.  
  
"It's all right, Sam," Frodo said, stretching a hand toward him.   
  
"If you're sure you don't mind," Sam grumbled, taking his hand and moving closer.  
  
"She insists that we enjoy it. So we may as well try." Frodo shot a sardonic smile at Mariella, over Sam's arm.  
  
"Oh, yes," Mariella said. "Do try. Or I may have to prod you." She picked up the fireplace poker, which was, at least, cold, and therefore not an instrument of complete nightmarishness.  
  
"Charming," answered Frodo. Then he pulled Sam up against him, and encouraged, "Put your arms round me."  
  
Sam obeyed, and Frodo found himself comfortably fitted between Sam's warm skin and the smooth wooden wall. He tipped back his head until it touched the wall as well, and focused on Sam's eyes, trying not to see the transparent form hovering behind him. "Kiss me?" he murmured.  
  
Sam, who had taken on a rather thoughtful look, leaned forward and caught Frodo's mouth in a soft kiss.   
  
Frodo closed his eyes and curled his arms tight across Sam's back. Their naked chests slid together, Sam's skin feeling damp and slightly sticky against his, but not unpleasant. "Ohh..." Frodo moaned, when the movement of their lips allowed. He heard two gasps in response: one, ecstatic, from Mariella; the other, quiet and near and surprised, from Sam. He urged Sam closer with another cinch of his arms, and Sam responded with a much firmer kiss.  
  
Frodo wasn't sure how long they kept it up, but he did feel that Sam had followed orders quite well: by the time they deemed it proper to stop, Frodo was pinned most securely against the wall. He could have lifted his feet off the floor and not fallen, so strongly was Sam holding him.  
  
"That was beautiful!" said the enraptured Mariella, while Sam and Frodo carefully unstuck their torsos and limbs from each other. "Oh, I was perfectly able to imagine that you were a master who'd called his man-servant in from the garden for a quick crush up against the wall! It was perfect!"  
  
Sam turned to stare at her in perplexity, and seemed to have a mind to speak up, but Frodo distracted him by petting his upper arm, and answering for them both: "I'm sure we're glad to have pleased you, then, madam."  
  
"I must go daydream some more about this. Yes, I must indeed!" Mariella flung the poker happily onto a chair, and sailed away, disappearing before she reached the door.  
  
Sam shook his head. "She comes up with strange notions, and no mistake."  
  
"You did wonderfully, Sam." Frodo gave Sam's arm one last caress. "It's much easier when we don't fight it the whole way, isn't it?"  
  
"Aye, it is that." Sam picked up his shirt and slipped his arms into it. He threw Frodo a shy grin as he straightened his collar. "Almost had me convinced, you did."  
  
"Well, the enjoyment was almost real," returned Frodo, whimsically. He strolled past Sam to fetch his own shirt, and nudged his elbow on the way. "Have a lovely afternoon."  
  
* * *  
  
Mariella left them quite alone for the rest of the day, but awakened Frodo most importunately the next morning by seizing his ankles through the blankets and shaking him.  
  
"Gracious," he gasped as he bolted upright. "There are kinder ways to wake people up, you know!"  
  
"But it's half past nine," she wheedled. "Sam's already here, in the garden!"  
  
"I'll do much better at seducing him if you let me sleep longer," said Frodo, turning back over onto his pillows.  
  
"You will not. Get out of bed!"  
  
Frodo groaned. "You've deprived me of sleep enough. Give me another hour, and I promise I'll...I'll get him to lie on top of me or something."  
  
That pleased her. "Oooh! Would you indeed?"  
  
"Yes. Now go away."  
  
"With your shirts off?"  
  
"Yes, fine." Frodo hauled the sheet over his head.  
  
"Then I'll be back in one hour," she said, in a loud whisper. "Sweet dreams, little hobbit!"  
  
Frodo, too tired to care about what he had just promised, fell promptly back into slumber.  
  
But when his ankles were again seized, at half past ten, he knew it had not been a dream.  
  
"All right, all right," he grumbled. "I'm getting up."  
  
"Shall I call in Sam?" said the excited Mariella, bobbing up and down in the air, drifting strangely through the furniture.  
  
"Let me bathe first," Frodo yawned, putting on a robe. "I think he liked the fragrances."  
  
"Oh yes, I quite forgot to ask." Mariella followed him down the hallway. "What did he smell like yesterday, when he removed his shirt for you and clasped you in his arms?"  
  
"Like a lad who has taken off his shirt. And like grass." Frodo paused with his hand on the bathroom door. "Miss, you are *not* to accompany me into the bath, do you understand?"  
  
She lifted her chin, and her eyes darkened ominously. "I'd like to see you stop me."  
  
"I know I can't," pleaded Frodo. "Which is why I'm asking you, as one civilized person to another."  
  
"All right. But tell me this: were you thinking about it all day afterward? Kissing Sam, of course I mean."  
  
Frodo sighed, closed his eyes, and rested his forehead against the door. "How could I not think about it afterward? This is entirely too strange to ignore!"  
  
"And compared to other people you've kissed," she went on, as if she was taking a survey, "how does he rate, in terms of skill?"  
  
"He rates..." Frodo shrugged carelessly. "He rates very well, I suppose. I haven't much experience. But he hasn't been disagreeable."  
  
"I knew it!" said the jubilant Mariella. "You're starting to like it!"  
  
Frodo turned weary eyes to her. "Oh, it's not--I mean, you seem to imply that--oh, just don't go telling him theories like that. Please."  
  
"I won't," Mariella said. "*You* will, one day, though."  
  
Frodo's mouth dropped open. "What?"  
  
"See you soon." She waved mischievously and disappeared.  
  
* * *  
  
It was with some nervousness that the freshly-groomed Frodo invited Sam inside for lunch.   
  
"Actually," he said as they stepped into the smial, "Mariella would like to see us first. I made her promise we'd only allow five or ten minutes..."  
  
"It's all right, sir," Sam said, cordially. "There are worse ways to spend a body's time indoors." And he winked at Frodo.   
  
Mariella, waiting by the fireplace, chuckled happily at that exchange. "Adorable, Samwise, just adorable. Seat yourselves on that sofa again, won't you?"  
  
They sat down. Frodo dreaded that she would request some romantic dialogue, so was actually a bit relieved when she directed, "Off with your shirts again. And then keep each other warm. And, Frodo, keep your promise."  
  
While they took off their shirts, Sam asked, "Promise?"  
  
"I'll show you," Frodo sighed. He put aside his shirt, and waited while Sam set his on the opposite arm of the couch. Then he beckoned, and Sam obediently slid over and put his arms round him. They were getting oddly used to this, Frodo thought. He tilted his head and began to kiss Sam.   
  
"Good," purred Mariella. "I didn't even have to tell you."  
  
Frodo steadfastly ignored her, bending his mind instead to the details of Sam that he would need to remember: Sam's lips tasted like honey and his mouth tasted like cornbread this morning; his teeth were smooth on Frodo's tongue, and his arms felt silky but strong as they slid up and down Frodo's back.   
  
Oddly, keeping his promise now didn't actually sound so bad. He leaned backward, pulling Sam with him. Sam seemed to understand. Without even breaking the kiss or whispering a word to question it, he shifted his legs so that they could lie comfortably, and let his weight settle atop Frodo.  
  
"Yes!" said the rapt Mariella. "That's it! Oh, you're naturals!"  
  
Frodo extracted his tongue to snap, with his head tipped back, "Will you please keep your comments to yourself? We do much better without them."  
  
"Sorry," she whispered. "Do go on!"  
  
"Thank you." Frodo met Sam's damp mouth, which seemed to be waiting for him, and they resumed their newly horizontal activity.  
  
Some minutes later, Sam, who had been discovering that nibbling on Frodo's earlobe was also diverting, paused to ask him, "Are you not comfortable?"  
  
"I'm quite comfortable. Why?"  
  
"You keep squirming, like."  
  
"Well, so do you."  
  
"Aye, but I'm squirming because...because I *am* comfortable, see."  
  
"It's the same for me," Frodo shrugged. "I assure you, I was just thinking that until today I had never noticed how comfortable my own couch was."  
  
"Well, all right, then," said the reassured Sam, and set to investigating the dark reaches of Frodo's mouth with his tongue.  
  
A while later, Frodo broke his lips away to ask Mariella in breathless tones, "How long has it been?"  
  
She was lying on her stomach on the floor, with her chin propped up in her hands, watching dreamily. Now she cast a look at the clock, and answered, "Only half an hour. Take your time."  
  
"Half an--" Sam rose up to his knees. "Goodness, I shouldn't dally like this, sir..."  
  
Frodo grabbed him, pulled him back down, and re-immersed him in kissing. Sam gave up without much of a struggle, and indeed was apparently quite comfortable, to judge from the amount of wriggling he was doing.  
  
After another minute or so, Frodo released him, and they separated and sat up, gasping for breath.  
  
"Well," Frodo said, brushing off his trousers and directing a haughty look at Mariella. "I hope you're satisfied. Taking up our valuable time like this."  
  
Sam coughed. "Yes. Quite so," he contributed, in an unsteady voice.  
  
Mariella rolled her eyes, and lifted herself from the floor, smiling. "You two are so deeply enjoying this. I would have thought I'd died and gone to a better world, if I weren't already dead. Time to go contrive more scenes for you. Good day!" And off she floated, fading to nothing somewhere beside a window.  
  
Frodo, shivering a little in his shirtless condition without Sam's warmth on top of him anymore, glanced at Sam to read his thoughts. Sam answered with an amiable shrug.  
  
"What she say can't hurt us none," Sam said, with his usual practicality.  
  
"No indeed, Sam. You are very right." Frodo planted his hands on his knees and stood up. "Lunch?"  
  
* * * 


	5. 5

But lunch did not prove so easy to focus on. Even as they ate, and made conversation about other things, Frodo found that there was something about Sam's wriggling atop him while kissing his earlobe that demanded to be replayed repeatedly in his mind. He also found himself wondering whether it meant anything, the way Sam kept casting him curious looks from beneath his eyelashes. He even found himself *hoping* it meant something.   
  
In all, he was quite glad Mariella seemed unable to read people's minds, for she would just be entirely too pleased if she knew where his was currently dwelling. He couldn't bear to see the smugness, or hear the squeals of delight. If only he and Sam could be alone somewhere, where they could be sure she wouldn't appear; then he would...he would...what? His mind, stuck in its rut, promptly supplied, "Have Sam lie on top of me and kiss my earlobe," but he knew that couldn't be right. He had never wanted such things of Sam before.  
  
When he saw Sam to the door, to let him back out to his gardening tasks, he found himself standing quite close to the lad. And Sam wasn't moving away.  
  
"Well, I'll probably see you soon, then," said Frodo, leaning on the door, looking into Sam's eyes.  
  
"Reckon so," Sam agreed, sharing the step with him, his face perhaps three inches away.  
  
Strangest thing, but Frodo's eyes darted to Sam's mouth. That seemed to give Sam a push of encouragement, for he leaned in and gave Frodo a kiss, right on the lips.  
  
"Why, we weren't even being watched," said Frodo, who realized his voice sounded remarkably delighted.  
  
"Guess I was just in a kissing mood," shrugged Sam, smiling. He eased off the step and sauntered backward into the garden. "See you later, then, sir."   
  
"See you, Sam." Frodo gazed after him, till Sam turned and became obscured by the hedges.   
  
Well, there was no doubt about it: whatever he used to feel for Sam, it was clear it had grown recently to encompass a great fondness and attraction. And he felt too happy to care one bit what that ghost-girl would say.  
  
* * *  
  
Sam's work, unfortunately, kept him away from Bag End all afternoon, and Frodo had to tell the pouting Mariella, when she appeared, that he was sorry but she would just have to come back later.  
  
She showed up again as he was climbing into bed, to ask whether she couldn't persuade him to call Sam up here to spend the night. Frodo tried to imagine knocking on the Gamgees' door and asking the Gaffer for that kind of request, and firmly told her it was impossible.  
  
She stamped her foot and fumed, "You had better repay me well tomorrow!" and disappeared in a storm, after overturning his laundry hamper and kicking his clothes around the room. The disconsolate Frodo had some trouble falling asleep after that.  
  
But he felt quite revived when Sam came into the smial, just after second breakfast, and bestowed a beaming smile upon him. "Morning, sir!"  
  
Frodo jumped up from his seat, beaming back. "Hello, Sam!"  
  
Sam glanced around expectantly. "No sign of Herself today?"  
  
"Not so far. Though she was prevailing upon me last night to go drag you out of bed. I thought that was rather too much."  
  
"Oh, I wouldn't have minded. But she oughtn't to disturb you at all hours like that. It ain't civilized."  
  
"Quite what I thought."  
  
Sam's eye was caught by the dirty dishes Frodo had just abandoned. "Here, let me take care of those for you." He rushed forward and took them to the wash-basin.  
  
"Why, thank you," Frodo said. He walked up and placed his hands on Sam's waist, while Sam stood pouring water over the dishes. When Sam turned his head in surprise, Frodo kissed him on the cheek.  
  
"What was that for?" asked Sam, putting the water-pitcher down and turning further to ease himself into Frodo's arms.  
  
"Just in a kissing mood, I guess," Frodo answered.  
  
Sam smiled, and returned the kiss with one of his own, on the mouth.  
  
That kept them busy for a minute or two, and when they broke apart Frodo looked around, somewhat agitated. "She's still not here?"  
  
"Seemingly not," said Sam.  
  
Frodo toyed with the cloth of Sam's sleeve. "Well...if you don't mind...I was thinking perhaps we should go out to the couch anyway, just in case. She seemed awfully angry with me last night, and it may take a lot to please her today, so..."  
  
Sam nodded at once. "Perhaps if she found we'd already got started on our own, she'd not be so cross with us."  
  
"Exactly. I'm so relieved you understand." Frodo caught Sam's fingers, and pulled him at almost a sprint into the parlor.   
  
They landed in a diagonal slant on the couch, already kissing, legs and arms in a tangle. Very soon their shirts were unbuttoned and pulled open to let their skin touch, though they could not find the time to bother taking them all the way off.  
  
"Oh, goodness, YES!" cried a voice a few minutes later--which, as it happened, was Mariella's.   
  
The hobbits started, and looked up. There she stood, looming above the couch, clasping her pale hands in rapture. As soon as Frodo caught his breath, he chastised, "Well, it certainly took you long enough to get here! We've been doing this for I can't imagine how long, just waiting for you to show up."  
  
"Yes, I'm sure that explains it. I like that new development," Mariella remarked, tilting her head so she could observe Sam's fingers upon Frodo's nipple.  
  
"Aye, well," Sam said, furtively pulling his hand back. "Thought you might. That's why I was doing it, of course."  
  
"Yes," Frodo agreed. "Really, the things we do for you! When will you leave us in peace?"  
  
Mariella smirked, took hold of her skirts, and strolled a few steps away, where she dropped down to sit on the floor. "I'm dead, not stupid. You two are not fooling anyone. So, please--carry on."  
  
"Really, I must insist that this maligning of our characters-" Frodo began.  
  
"Oh, do be quiet! Carry on!" she commanded.  
  
"As you wish," Frodo sulked. Then, brightening, he turned his face to Sam again, and they resumed their previous activity.  
  
He became so immersed in the feel of Sam's lips, hands, and chest; and the novelty of moving his body around beneath Sam's (he wasn't sure how they had got into that position again, but so be it); that he was once again startled when Mariella spoke.  
  
"All right," she complained. "It's been half an hour, and I am beginning to get bored. I'm afraid I need to hear some words of affection." She waved her hand peremptorily. "Frodo, you start."  
  
"Words of affection? What on earth...?"  
  
" 'Sam, my darling, you're such a wonderful lover,' that sort of thing. Go on!"  
  
Frodo laughed, inadvertently. " 'My darling'? Sam, can you imagine me calling you that?"  
  
Sam was grinning. "Does sound a bit silly."  
  
"Then compare his eyes to the sea or something," snapped Mariella. "Tell him about the sleepless nights you've spent mooning over him."  
  
"His eyes are brown, which, I gather, is not the color of the sea," Frodo explained patiently. "Which in any case I've never seen, so I'd hardly use it as a basis for comparison. And furthermore, the only sleepless nights I've spent lately have been *your* fault, ma'am, not his; so that would be a lie as well."  
  
"Oh?" fumed Mariella. She turned her glare to Sam. "Perhaps *you* have some sentiments to express, Samwise? Surely you can find the names of flowers to compare to the texture of his skin."  
  
Sam shrugged. "I suppose it's a bit like rose petals here and there, but roses don't have hairs, like." Sam tickled Frodo's lightly-furred chest, eliciting a giggle.  
  
"Tell him you adore him and desire him and need him!" she shouted. "Give me poetry!"  
  
"Now, really, Miss," said Sam, growing stern. "I've not said one word of complaint about kissing him and rolling around with him and such, but I said I'd put my foot down somewhere, and this sugary girly-talk is where I draw the line!"  
  
"Indeed," observed Frodo, also addressing her. "It's ridiculous if you think about it. You claim you're drawn to us because we're lads, and yet you want us to speak like lasses?"  
  
Mariella leaped to her feet and seized an Elvish dictionary to wield over them. Each hobbit raised an arm in self-defense. "Now you're just fooling about!" she cried. "I won't have it! I must know how this ends!"  
  
"How this ends?" said the bewildered Frodo.  
  
"Yes! The truth, curse you! If I weren't here, what would you do with each other? Tell me!"  
  
"We'd..." Frodo glanced guiltily at Sam. "Well...to be honest..."  
  
"Sir, I have to admit..." Sam began.  
  
"I used her as an excuse today," Frodo blurted out. "I wanted to do this with you. I'm so sorry, Sam."  
  
"Don't be," said Sam, who sounded relieved. "I was doing the same. I'm liking it too--quite a lot really."  
  
"What are you saying?" demanded Mariella.  
  
"Well," Frodo answered, "it seems if you weren't here, I'd--I'd most likely get carried away in a fashion that I certainly wouldn't allow if you *were* here."  
  
Sam nodded in agreement, looking up at the hovering Elvish dictionary with a slight cringe. "Like as not, something more than this would happen, if we were alone."  
  
"You're not just saying that because you think I want to hear it?" threatened Mariella, brandishing the dictionary at one of them and then the other.  
  
"Well, I'd not use poetry on him, truthfully," Sam added, "but I'd be getting affectionate some way or another, and that's a fact."  
  
"Oh, Sam," said Frodo, pleased. He was rewarded with a glowing, bashful smile from his closely situated friend.  
  
Mariella slowly lowered the dictionary. "All right," she said a moment later. "I've brought you two together in a romantic fashion. Is that what you're telling me?"  
  
"It's strange, but it seems that way," admitted Frodo, who, though he kept his eyes innocently upon her, had begun tangling his fingers in Sam's chest hair.  
  
"I've awoken the spark of mutual desire in you?" she said suspiciously. "Given you impure thoughts about one another?"  
  
"I can only speak for myself, but yes, for my part," said Frodo.  
  
"Mine as well," contributed Sam.  
  
"And if I leave," she went on, narrowing her eyes, "you'll act on those thoughts with something resembling abandon?"  
  
"Something like it," said Frodo.  
  
"Close as I can get to it," promised Sam.  
  
She regarded them silently for a moment, then her face lit up with a wide grin, and she flung the dictionary into the air with a whoop. "Hurray! I've done it! I've created love!" She whirled about while she cheered; the dictionary fell, without incurring much damage, onto an armchair. Quite soon she stopped whirling, and bent to bestow a clammy fishlike kiss on the forehead of each hobbit. "Good lads! Good, good lads! All right, I'll be going now. I'll leave you to it. Farewell, boys! Oooh, what fun I'll have imagining it!" And she danced away and vanished into a wall.  
  
Frodo sagged back onto the cushions. "Whew. Well, that got rid of her."  
  
"Aye." Sam leaned in for a kiss, then stopped before he got there, a frown crossing his face. "Wait--then you just said all that to make her go away?"  
  
"No--I mean, yes--I mean...did you?"  
  
"Well, it might have crossed my mind," defended Sam.  
  
"Yes, naturally it should." Frodo gnawed on his lower lip, lowering his eyes to where his fingers were playing at Sam's bare chest. "Of course, if you did mean it..."  
  
"Then?"  
  
"Then, that would be fine with me. I could..." Frodo shrugged one shoulder, attempting indifference. "I could find enjoyment in it, I suppose."  
  
"Oh, you suppose." There was an echo of Mariella's smugness in Sam's voice. "When we're lying this close, I can tell that much, sir."  
  
Frodo couldn't keep up the mask anymore, and dissolved into a shy grin. He hauled Sam down to complete the kiss that had been averted a minute earlier. "All right, it was true," he said. "Every word of it."  
  
"Same here," assured Sam, hand firmly back inside Frodo's shirt, and making forays into the frontier of his waistband.  
  
"So where's that 'abandon' we were to pursue?" Frodo murmured.  
  
"Think if you look in my pocket here, you might find it."  
  
"Oh, Sam!"  
  
* * *  
  
It was with great joy, two weeks later, that Frodo answered his door and found Gandalf standing there. He embraced the wizard and begged him to come inside for a plate of food, freshly prepared by Sam. He wasted no time, over the meal, in getting to the problem at hand: namely, his house ghost Mariella, who still had not gone away. She kept reappearing, in fact, at the most inopportune and private moments, often when Frodo was trying to entertain Sam; and whether or not Sam was there, she had developed a habit of asking for shockingly specific details. Her impertinence and intrusion were really getting out of hand.   
  
He related all this to Gandalf with much blushing and twisting of his fingers in his lap. Sam hung shyly in the background, wrapping a dishtowel around his wrists, and throwing in a word of support or clarification now and then. The book of Caerolas's drawings sat open on the table before Gandalf, who leafed through it as he listened.  
  
The wizard, after he had bestowed a frown on each hobbit in turn, broke into a kindly smile at last and said, "Indeed. Well, I rather expected you were headed that direction, lads. I just didn't think you would get there so soon! Nor that it would take a spirit to talk you into it." He laughed.  
  
"I knew you'd understand," said Frodo, deeply relieved. "You see, Sam, I told you he would!"  
  
"But, Mr. Gandalf, you understand that if my Gaffer found out..."  
  
"Oh, yes, yes, Sam; you have my utmost discretion," Gandalf soothed. "The question is: what to do about your ghost?"  
  
"She really must go," Frodo agreed. "I'm even willing to part with the book, I think, but who could I sell it to, with a clear conscience? And what might she say about us to its new owner?"  
  
"That's simple," said Gandalf. "You sell it to me. Here!" From the bag hanging at his belt he produced a small handful of coins, which he dumped into Frodo's hand. "More than it's worth, considering the marks she's put all over it."  
  
Frodo stared at the coins, then at the wizard, with uncertain happiness. "But what will *you* do with her, Gandalf?"  
  
"I? Oh, don't worry about me. I have a trick or two up my sleeve; and if those fail, I know a jolly little fellow in the Old Forest who has quite a skill for banishing ghosts. I'm sure he'd make light work of her!"  
  
"What's going to happen to me?" said a fearful female voice. They all turned to see Mariella hovering in the doorway, staring wide-eyed at the wizard.  
  
"Goodness me!" said Gandalf. "What a sight. I see how you might have been intimidated, Frodo. Apparently they haven't any *combs* in the spirit world."  
  
"You're my new owner, aren't you?" Mariella went on. "I can feel it! You bought the book!"  
  
"Yes, he did," said Frodo, holding up the fist full of coins in triumph. "I'm finally rid of you, Miss! With many thanks for all you've done for me, of course."  
  
"What will become of me?" whimpered Mariella, shrinking back from Gandalf, who was smirking at her.  
  
"I'll send you where you belong," he responded. "Where you should have gone when you died, rather than attaching yourself to your, shall we say, earthly pleasures."  
  
"But where is that?" she asked.   
  
"Oh--" Gandalf waved a hand in the air. "Beyond the silver curtain, through the veil; so forth and so on. It's nothing to fear, you silly girl. You'll have it a hundred times better there than you do here, tormenting poor little hobbits."  
  
"Will there be--man-flesh there?" she inquired, seeming to get a little more interested in the prospect.  
  
"Not *flesh* per se, but as much man as you could ask for. Only every hero who ever lived and died."  
  
She beamed, and clapped her hands together. "Then let's go at once! Oh, I've been longing to meet so many of them!"  
  
"All in good time," protested Gandalf. "Why, I've not yet finished my tea. Shoo! Off with you!"   
  
Mariella nodded, curtsied, said several effusive words of thanks, and vanished for the time being.  
  
Gandalf packed up his wagon that evening to begin the brief journey to the Old Forest, where he would send Mariella where she needed to go.  
  
"I can't thank you enough, Gandalf," Frodo said, standing at the gate with Sam. "Though I will miss the book..."  
  
"I'll bring it back to you when it has been evacuated, so to speak," Gandalf promised. "In the meantime, help yourself to one of these others." He threw back the cloth covering his wagon, and opened a trunk to reveal several books. "I only just bought them yesterday. I haven't examined them all, but I'm sure you'll find something you like."  
  
Frodo's heart lifted at the sight of such treasure, and he spent the better part of fifteen minutes pawing through and poring over the selection, pointing out interesting things to the attentive Sam, before finally choosing one.  
  
"An adventure," he said, perusing the first chapter. "With a lot of interesting commentary upon language, as well." He shut the book and grinned at Sam and Gandalf. "Probably very little in the way of girlish romance!"  
  
"Thank goodness for that," Sam said.  
  
Gandalf bade them farewell, promising to return soon. As his wagon drove away, the hobbits saw the cloth twitch aside again, and Mariella's transparent head poked out. They waved to her. She made a begging gesture with both hands. Frodo glanced at Sam, who shrugged, and obliged her by seizing Frodo and planting a long kiss on him.  
  
The last thing they saw before the wagon turned the bend was the huge smile and frantically applauding hands of their ghost-girl.  
  
"I'll almost miss her," Sam admitted, as they went into Bag End.  
  
"She was interesting," Frodo allowed. "But think what we can do without her to intrude upon us." He shut the front door behind Sam, and pinned him against it with another long kiss.  
  
"Mm," Sam murmured. "That book; it's digging into my ribs..."  
  
"Sorry," breathed Frodo. He dropped the new book onto the nearest chair and rewrapped as many limbs as possible around Sam. He was just getting Sam's top trouser button unfastened when a deep voice boomed:  
  
"Stop it at once! You wicked lads!"  
  
Frodo and Sam gasped and flattened themselves to the wall, staring at the new apparition in Bag End. It was another Big Person--that is, another ghost of a Big Person--but a man this time. He was elderly, with spiky white hair and a clean-shaven face, and was wearing a tweed suit. He looked quite irritated with Sam and Frodo, and was glaring fixedly at them.  
  
"Wh--who are you?" Frodo stammered.  
  
"You may call me The Professor! I live in that book, and I shan't put up with any such gross indecency in my presence! For shame, boys, for shame!"  
  
Sam's shoulders drooped. "Oh, you can't be serious."   
  
"Don't talk back to me! Button up your shirt!" The Professor pointed a bony finger at Frodo. "You! Take that servant's hand off you!"  
  
Frodo heaved a sigh. "Right. Sam, remind me to tell Gandalf that I shall *not* be interested in keeping this particular book."  
  
"Want to come sleep at my house tonight?" Sam offered.  
  
"I think I'd better."  
  
"Stop!" shouted The Professor, behind them. "Don't run away while I'm speaking to you!"  
  
But Frodo and Sam were already halfway down the hill, and Frodo was laughing, trying to imagine what kind of excuse they would give the Gaffer for arriving at his house with their clothes half undone and requesting that Mr. Frodo sleep under their roof tonight.  
  
(THE END.) 


End file.
